The Toilette of the Queen
by miashay
Summary: Abaddon washes away a long day, plots against Crowley, reminisces about Hell, and tries to keep her mind off the puzzle that's Dean Winchester. Coda to Episode 9-2.


**Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Supernatural, or any of the characters you find here.**

**Spoilers: Coda to 9-2. **

**Warnings: Disturbing images and themes**

Abaddon leaves Oregon with strands of Dean Winchester's hair still clinging to her palm. She shakes them away, but the scent of him remains.

She finds a house grand enough for her purposes and slaughters the family inside, then draws a bath from their still warm blood. The smell of iron and death is soothing, and she stays submerged until the skin of her vessel is tacky and red.

It feels good, like being home.

The hallway outside the bathroom is laid with white marble- a bit ostentatious for a few meaningless humans, she thinks- and Abaddon paces the length of it, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind her.

She starts to strategize her next move.

Crowley must be found, of course, and his destruction memorable, public and irrefutable; no room for fairy tales or speculation. She'll end him violently, painfully, scatter the remains of his essence far and wide, then maybe lop off that head he's so fond of, have it placed on a platter like John the Baptist and carried throughout Hell.

Loath as she is to assign him any more importance, she needs to set a precedent. He'll be her example, along with anything still loyal to him, and anything else that refuses to bow at her feet. Once her throne is secured and all the denizens of Hell brought to heel, she'll be free to focus on other things. Angels. Winchesters.

There's something familiar about Dean Winchester. His body, while delicious, firm muscles and fragile skin just begging to be split and peeled away, is nonetheless nothing more than bones wrapped in meat. But the feel of him, the smell; there's a subtle shift in the air around him, faint but pure, and strong enough to taste. It lingers at the back of her borrowed throat, even beneath the tang of blood. Something familiar...

She shakes these thoughts aside, glances around. The hallway is smeared red, snatches of marble visible here and there, like bits of bone beneath the gore. She smiles fondly and pines for the blood drenched plains of Hell.

Abaddon calls for her nearest living ally, then rids herself of the sticky remains of her evening bath and dresses.

Sometime over the last fifty years, the demons have grown squeamish. They won't hesitate to kill, but their methods seem more sterile, with no creativity. While Abaddon is willing to utilize modern weaponry, human tools, to reach her goals, that decision is tactical. Her entire being aches with the need to be inhuman, savage, to root out her enemies and tear them asunder, to bathe in their blood.

Crowley was always weak; too gutless to rule. From what she remembers, what she's been told, he hides behind his hell hounds, leaves the slaughter to them but for the rare occasion when he must prove his might as King. He has neutered his subjects, has them brokering deals for souls when they should be dragging them into Hell by force.

And hell. These demons fear Hell. They find no comfort in eternal torment, no peace in endless suffering. They make her long for her fellow Knights; before they were struck down, each and every one was as vicious and cruel as her. Like her, they were fueled by the desire to conquer, always extending their reach, yet they still called Hell their home. She sighs at the memories, and in the midst of reminiscing discovers her error.

Her hatred of Crowley and fervent desire to lay claim to Hell has blinded her. Fifty years ago, not only was Hell in far more capable hands, but Abaddon had allies, ancient and powerful. Since arriving in the future, she's heard no mention of Lilith, Azazel or Alastair…

She sucks in a breath just as her minion appears, a young demon named Sara, who automatically kneels at her feet.

Abaddon reaches out, grabs her by her lapels and pulls her up, tight and close. She snarls.

"Tell me, why does Dean Winchester reek of Alastair and hellfire?"


End file.
